“What do you need?”
“Tell me you're going to break Julian's nose.”
Bo considered.
“I can tell you I want to.”
I smiled despite myself.
“Better.”
His huge hand covered mine.
“I could put him on a train.”
“I know.”
“Would take ten minutes.”
“I know.”
“I think about it frequently.”
I laughed.
“But?”
“But then you'd spend the rest of your life knowing he left because your husband was bigger.”
His thumb moved over my knuckles.
“You deserve to watch him lose because he is wrong.”
Tears filled my eyes.
Bo stood and came around the table.
I pressed my face against his chest.
He held me.
“I don't need you to fight this for me,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“I need you beside me.”
“That's where I'll be.”
The courthouse overflowed.
Judge Nathaniel Ward was sixty-three and had served in Montana Territory before Copper Creek possessed a proper jail.
He listened without expression while Attorney Crane described me as emotionally vulnerable.
Dr. Wallace testified next.
He had never examined me.
That did not prevent him from discussing inherited nervous temperament, female emotional disorders, and the possibility that my sudden departure indicated instability.
Then Bo testified.
Crane approached him.
“Mr. Rollins, did you advertise for a wife?”
“Yes.”
“Did Mrs. Rollins arrive with substantial money?”
“No.”
“Did you know she was an heiress?”
“No.”
“When did you learn?”
“After we married.”
“Convenient.”
Bo looked at him.
“For who?”
A few people laughed.
Judge Ward tapped his desk.
Crane continued.
“You are physically considerably larger than your wife.”
Bo's expression did not change.
“That's generally how measurement works.”
More laughter.
The judge hid a smile.
“Did you pressure Mrs. Rollins to marry you?”
“No.”
“Did you tell her what you expected?”
“Yes.”
“In front of witnesses?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell her you wanted a woman who would cook, love you, and bear sons?”
“Yes.”
Crane turned toward the judge as if he had proven something.
“What would have happened if she refused?”
“She would not have married me.”
“What if she wished to leave now?”
Bo looked at me.
Then back at Crane.
“I would ask why.”
“And?”
“If she still wanted to go, I'd help load her trunk.”
The room quieted.
Crane frowned.
“You would simply let your wife leave?”
Bo's eyes hardened.
“She's my wife, not livestock.”
Julian shifted.
I nearly smiled.
Then Crane asked, “You claim she makes her own decisions?”
“Yes.”
“Yet she depends upon you financially.”
“No.”
That surprised even me.
Crane paused.
“No?”
Bo reached inside his coat.
He handed Judge Ward a document.
“What is this?” the judge asked.
“Deed.”
“To?”
“Half interest in the home section of Rollins Ranch.”
My heart stopped.
I stared at Bo.
“When did you do that?”
He looked almost guilty.
“Two weeks after we married.”
“You never told me.”
“Was saving it for our anniversary.”
I wanted to strangle him and kiss him simultaneously.
Crane recovered.
“An obvious attempt to strengthen her position.”
Bo shook his head.
“Document was notarized six months before anyone knew her father was sick.”
Judge Ward examined the date.
Crane's face tightened.
Then came my turn.
I told the story.
Not emotionally.
Precisely.
I described Julian's first wife.
The letters.
Dr. Wallace.
My father's response.
My departure.
Every train.
Every city.
Every ticket purchased with my own money.
Then Crane asked the question he should not have asked.
“If these letters existed, Mrs. Rollins, where are they?”
“I left them on my father's desk.”
“So you possess no evidence.”
“No.”
He smiled.
“Only accusations.”
The courtroom door opened.
Every head turned.
A woman stood there.
She was perhaps thirty-five.
Thin.
Pale.
Dressed simply in gray.
Beside her stood an older Black woman carrying a leather document case.
Julian went white.
The woman looked directly at him.
“Hello, Julian.”
No one moved.
I knew without being told.
Lydia Mercer.
The woman beside her introduced herself as Margaret Avery, formerly a nurse employed at Bellmore Private Sanatorium outside Philadelphia.
Lydia walked forward.
Her hands trembled.
Her voice did not.
“My husband told people I was insane because I refused to sign control of my mother's trust to him.”
Julian stood.
“This is outrageous.”
Judge Ward slammed his hand down.
“Sit.”
Julian sat.
Lydia continued.
“Dr. Wallace prescribed medicines that left me confused during examinations.”
The doctor looked toward the door.
Marshal Shaw shifted position.
Wallace remained seated.
Margaret Avery placed documents on the judge's desk.
“I kept copies,” she said.
“Copies of what?” Ward asked.
“Medication orders. Payments from Mr. Mercer. Correspondence.”
Julian stared at her.
“You stole private medical records.”
“Yes.”
She looked directly at him.
“After I realized we were helping imprison a sane woman.”
Wallace stood.
“I object to—”
“You are not counsel,” Judge Ward said.
“Sit.”
Wallace obeyed.
The courtroom changed after that.
The papers did not merely support Lydia.
They included letters bearing Julian's signature.
Payments.
Instructions.
A note asking whether a stronger diagnosis would allow faster transfer of property control.
And among them was something unexpected.
A recent letter.
From Julian to Dr. Wallace.
Concerning me.
The western marriage should be characterized as evidence of impulsive deterioration. If Rollins can be framed as coercive, her subsequent resistance will become easier to interpret clinically.
Bo's hand tightened around the bench.
I covered it.
“Stay.”
He looked down at me.
I felt the anger vibrating through him.
“I am.”
Attorney Crane removed his spectacles.
He looked at Julian.
“You told me these proceedings were initiated by the Caldwell estate.”
“They were.”
“You did not tell me you corresponded with the physician about the desired diagnosis.”